The Detective of Smoke and Bone
by A Speckled Brunette
Summary: Crossover between Daughter of Smoke and Bone and Sherlock. You don't have to have read DOSAB to understand the fic, but it does help.
1. Prologue: The Business in Prague

**PROLOGUE: The Business in Prague**

**A/N: This is a crossover between the Daughter of Smoke and Bone series (by Laini Taylor) and the T.V. series Sherlock. {If you haven't read DoSaB, go do it, but you don't need to have read it to understand the story.} I do not own either property, or anything you may recognize here. This is not beta'd, brit-picked, or Czech-picked. **

It was just another balmy spring day in London, about a month after the Moriarty affair. Sherlock insisted on wearing his Belstaff coat even in the warm weather, and quite honestly John didn't know how Sherlock had not died of heatstroke. Currently, however, he and John were lounging in the sitting room of 221B, as they often did. John was on his laptop blogging the latest case they had solved, a curious one involving a pleasure cruise, and Sherlock was lying on the sofa watching crap telly. In a fit of boredom, Sherlock began flipping channels. He landed on the news, and set down the remote with a resigned grimace. Perhaps there would be something interesting on the news today, a serial killer or particularly juicy murder, but he highly doubted it.

"In an interesting turn of events, a young woman in Prague has allegedly gotten into a fight with a pair of angels, and escaped with the aid of a third. For more information, we turn to Kathy in Prague."

"Thanks, Diane. I'm here with one Kazimir Jankovic,the ex-boyfriend of the alleged angel-fighter. Now, Mr Jankovic, can you tell us what happened last Tuesday night?"

The boyfriend recounted his versions of events, which as far as Sherlock could tell, were almost completely fabricated, when suddenly a pink water balloon descended - as if from the heavens - and burst on his head. Unexpectedly covered in bubble-gum-pink paste, the young man turned beet-red and fled the scene. Muted giggles could be heard from above.

"Er… back to you, Diane." The footage switched back to the anchorwoman, and Sherlock turned off the telly, exasperated that they would even cover such nonsense. The man was obviously a nutter, or drugged at the time of whatever had happened. The next minute, however, Lestrade came bounding up the stairs, and Sherlock and John rushed off into the night, once again engrossed in the hustle and bustle of London's criminal world.


	2. Night at the Museum

**CHAPTER 1: A Night at the Museum**

One morning, about three months later, they heard about the break-ins. One after another, all over the world, in no discernable pattern. From San Francisco to Beijing, museums were reporting break-ins, but nothing could be found to be missing, and they could find nothing on the security cameras. Until one day, they did find something. It was in Chicago, in the Field Museum. The mysterious thief had slipped up. He or she had shown up on exactly a second and a half of security footage, but it was enough. Scouring the museum, they found that the thief had been stealing teeth. The other museums examined their own natural history wings and found that they had been robbed of their teeth as well. Even Sherlock couldn't make heads or tails of it, though he certainly tried. Sitting on the sofa, he retreated into his mind-palace and ruminated on the strangeness of the entire situation. He was shaken from his reverie by Lestrade shaking his shoulder, evidently having been let in by John.

"You've heard about the museum teeth thefts, right Sherlock?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock nodded, somewhat annoyed by the interruption.

"Well, we've got another one. At the NHML. Will you come?"

"No."

"No? Sherlock, this has to be above a seven. Why won't you come?" Lestrade paced, exasperated by Sherlock's antics but somewhat worried as well. Theft wasn't normally his division, but Mycroft had specifically asked him to cover this, as he believed that was the only way Sherlock would become involved. Apparently a person who could do this sort of crime was a threat to national security.

"You know perfectly well why. My brother _obviously _asked you to cover the case, and besides, you know I don't investigate theft. I prefer murder. The motives are too bland and boring. You can just tell your little boyfriend that he can piss _off. _And stop sleeping with him before you come to me; I can deduce it and quite frankly, it's disgusting._" _Sherlock flipped on to his side and faced the wall. He actually would have taken the case, except he was mad at Lestrade for interrupting him in his mind-palace. Lestrade blushed, but knew that Sherlock was just pushing his buttons.

"Sherlock,' John spoke up, "you haven't been out of the flat for _days, _and quite frankly, you're driving me mad. You need something to do, and this sounds like the perfect distraction. Just take the damn case!"

"Alright, alright, just stop nagging me. I'll take the case," Sherlock replied testily. _For you John_, he added mentally. He stood up, grabbed his Belstaff and scarf, and motioned for John to follow him. Lestrade and John trailed outside.

The ride to the museum was largely uneventful. Surprisingly, Sherlock and John had managed to arrive before Lestrade. They took the moment to look around. News of the burglary had spread quickly, and a giant crowd had formed around the museum entrance. One girl in particular stood out. Around 17 or 18, the girl had shockingly blue hair and was covered in tattoos. She was slender and pale, and she seemed out of place at a natural history museum. Lestrade arrived soon after, and took them to the crime scene. The specimens in question were a family of sabre-toothed cats, and now they were missing their fangs.

"Alright, Sherlock. Do your magic," Lestrade said.

"It's not _magic,_ it's _logic_," replied Sherlock.

"I don't care what it is, just do it." Lestrade replied. Sherlock bent down and examined the sabre-toothed cats. Strangely, he could hardly make anything out from the cats. Pulling out his magnifying lens, he gave the mouths a closer look. Whoever had pulled out the teeth had been clever, very clever. He or she had been strong but dexterous, and was used to handling teeth with precision. A dentist or an orthodontist perhaps? Unlikely, but possible. Moving on to the museum himself, he could find no footprints, fingerprints, or traces of a break-in. There had been laser security, but it hadn't been tripped, so the thief had been very agile, someone like an acrobat. An acrobatic dentist? He pushed away the thought. Suddenly, something caught his eye. He picked it up. It was a single strand of blue hair-and it matched the exact shade of the girl with the tattoos. He mentally cursed himself. _Of course. She stayed to observe her handiwork._ He turned on his heel and told John and Lestrade to follow him. Without waiting for them to follow, he sprinted back towards the entrance. Of course, by the time he arrived, the girl had been long gone.

"Damn it," Sherlock cursed. "Lestrade, set out an alert for a young woman with blue hair, about 17 or so, heavily tattooed. She's our thief." Lestrade, having finally caught up, nodded silently and walked back to the remaining officers. Sherlock knew it would be no use, however. The police were idiots, always were, and always would be. He stepped into the street and hailed a cab.

"Mind telling me what that was all about?" John asked on the ride back. Sherlock held up an evidence bag containing the strand of hair. John's eyes widened. "That … that can's be!" He exclaimed. "It looks like her hair wasn't dyed at all. It seems as though it grew out of her hair that colour!"

"I know," Sherlock replied grimly. "That's why I took it with us. Lestrade and his cronies won't know the right tests. I'm going to run a few experiments. If I can figure out how she managed to do this to her hair, I believe I can locate her." The rest of the ride passed in a cheerless silence.

As soon as they arrived at 221B, Sherlock rushed up the steps, leaving John to pay the cabbie, _again._ John hardly heard a word from his flatmate over the next few days, as Sherlock had become obsessed over the case of the girl with the blue hair. He did, however, hear from Lestrade, who told him the girl had somehow vanished. Sherlock would not be happy to hear that. Over the same set of days, the girl struck three museums in three separate countries.

About a week later, Sherlock finally emerged from his mind palace, scowling. "Nothing!" he said angrily. "Not one chemical, not one dye. It's as though the hair _actually_ grew that colour. But it's not even possible." He flopped onto the sofa, exasperated. John mentally prepared himself for another period of silence and sulking. The last time Sherlock had failed to solve a case, he had sulked for 17 days. John practically had to force feed him more than once. He idly wondered how long this time would be.


End file.
